FIC: Entre Les Overdoses d'Amour (Between Overdoses of Love) [1/3]
Title: Entre Les Overdoses d'Amour (Between Overdoses of Love)
Author: eskimo_jo
Disclaimer: The names of all characters contained here-in are the property of Skins, Company Pictures, & Channel4. No infringements of these copyrights are intended, and are used here without permission.
Pairing: Naomi/Emily, Katie/Effy, Cook/Naomi, Cook/Katie, Cook/Effy. Cookie loves everyone :) [Mentions of others as well.]
Category: Angst/Romance
Rating: R.
Warnings: Language, character death, adult and disturbing scenes, hard drug use
Summary: When Katie decides to visit her sister in London, she throws everyone's lives into upheaval, prompting Emily to question her commitment to her girlfriend in light of Naomi's complicated relationship with Cook.
Notes: Quite Katie-centric, it seems. A sequel to Collision. I didn't mean to make a trilogy, but I swear this is the last part. Gotta keep things fresh. Please see previous parts for the backstory. Though it mostly picks up at the end of the second story, it does reference some things in the first as well. I would have put this up earlier, but I've spent a good week and a bit editing the damn thing. (Which means little to nothing in the long run cos I'm sure it's chock full of mistakes still. Ugh.)
There is also possibly the most massive fanmix I've ever made available here. It's pretty sad and angsty too. *sigh* I really do think they're particularly fitting this time around.
Also, again, HERE is the PDF in full-sheet. HERE is the PDF in booklet form.
[NB: The PDF contains more mistakes than the web-version due to editing/laziness, heh.]
“Love - any love - reveals us in our nakedness, our misery, our vulnerability, our nothingness.”
~ Cesare Pavese, 1908-1950.
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KATIE
It's the middle of a particularly grey, cold and rainy March and coming into the heart of London hasn't made that any brighter. Obviously. She doesn't think she can imagine anything more depressing than this stupid, grubby neighbourhood under this horrid weather. She didn't know it was possible for there to be a place worse than Bristol, but here she is, learning that the hard way. And for no good reason, either. It had seemed like a brilliant idea 3 days ago. It wasn't until she was staring out the train, zooming past hills and cooling towers, that she actually realised what she was actually doing.
So she stands at the intercom, debating. Getting here really wasn't as fucking difficult as Emily had made out. Her sister never was good with directions, giving her even more reason to be a leader back in college.
Her fingertips hover above the 3-digit call number. She memorised it on the tube to prevent herself from looking like a lost and confused easy target when she arrived. But that meant fuck all now considering she couldn't even work up the courage to visit her own damn sister. She takes a deep breath and scans over all the entries in the directory. She doesn't even see a familiar name next to the number she knows is Emily's. Figures. Judging by the state of the place, it isn't exactly kept up to high quality standards by the landlord.
The whine of a door hinge needing oil causes her to turn around. She almost rolls her eyes at her luck.
James Cook stands stunned in the doorway, key in one hand and a large paper bag full of what she can only assume is liquor in the other.
“Hey stranger,” he says in a voice that Katie has never heard before. Almost like shock.
“Cook,” she greets in kind. He glances behind him, to see if she is with anyone before turning back to her with a strange expression. He's probably surprised that she could actually find the flat considering he was likely used to her useless sister getting lost everytime she went outside.
“Forget the code?” he asks.
She nods, accepting the lie he offers. “I'm here to see Emily. She called a while ago, yeah? Said I should,” she pauses mid-sentence to give the lobby a once-over again and tries not to turn up her nose further. “Come round and see the place.” It's hesitant. It isn't that it isn't the truth, but she still isn't convinced that at the time the offer was extended, it was sincere. She's about to find out. He notices her reluctance.
He shoves the off-license bag into her arms, ignoring the rather large overnight bag on the mat beside her, and opens the inner door. Only when it's held open with his foot does he motion for her to hand him the bags. He trades her for the keys and lugs her bag and his towards the stairwell. She follows him without saying anything even though her mind is racing with pleasantries that she knows she's supposed to offer. There's something about a dead sober, less-than-exuberant Cook that unnerves her however and she stays quiet as well.
Inside the flat is nothing like she expected from the exterior. With grudging acceptance, she notes that it's actually sort of nice. It smells nice anyway even if there's crap littered all over the worn coffee table and a pile of dishes on the sofa. (Really? She can't imagine Emily ever settling for this sodding shit-tip after the childhood they had.) But they have some fairy lights up, a few decent pieces of furniture from IKEA, and a bunch of plants that neither smell rank nor feel like they're crowding the space. And a fucking wicked television smack dab in the middle of it all. She can see into the tiny kitchen from her spot in the living room and it's typical. And messy.
“Welcome to our humble abode,” he announces proudly after a moment of her silence, spreading his arms wide and grinning. She offers a weak smile. It's the best she can do if she wants it to be genuine. “Make yourself at home, babe.”
When the word falls from his lips, she's immediately taken back and realises that she's never heard 'babe' ever sound quite as right as when it comes from him. It brings back memories of before. Before Effy smashed her over the head in the woods; before Emily and Naomi broke up for the (then) last time; before fucking stupid Effy went and overdosed, the dumb cunt, and before Emily moved away to bloody Durham.
She smiles wider. “Where's Emily?”
He shrugs indifferently and begins unpacking the contents of his shopping bag into a bar fridge beside the TV. Lagers. Obviously. “Uni probably, doing her best to rid the world of ignorance... or getting pissed and flashing her tits. Whatever you ladies do there.”
Katie wants to correct him but keeps schtum on that topic in favour of asking another question. “What are you doing here? Middle of the day and all.”
He looks up from his position, his eyes lingering a little too long on her breasts before meeting her eyes. “Don't have work 'til later. You're stuck with me... Liquor? Spliff?” He offers with a wink at her as she moves over to him.
She sighs, a little dramatically. “Whatever. I'm easy.”
He raises his eyebrows at her comment and hands her a moderately cool can of Fosters. “Tease.” The smirk that spreads across his face is mirrored on her own. He tosses her the TV remote as she finally takes a seat on the sofa.
“Amuse yourself, but a word of warning: it's possible Blondie has locked-out every channel except Discovery and equally boring-as-fuck ones.” Katie smiles a little at his dismissive tone and tries out his theory. It's obviously a lie but she scrolls through the meagre offering of channels as she sips her beer anyway. Cook slumps into the armchair and she's a little disappointed that his cheekiness has pretty much evaporated. A year ago he would have slithered down beside her, a little too close, and done the whole yawn-and-stretch trick.
It's a little awkward being in this situation after having so much history. She really should have at least texted her keener sister on the way over. Her visit being a surprise was a terrible idea. She sees the spark of a lighter and a haze of smoke drifting her way. Then again, some things never change.
There's a bustle of movement on the other side of the door and soon Emily comes bursting in, followed by a rather breathless and dishevelled looking Naomi. Katie's lips automatically turn into a sneer and she has to try her best to repress it. After all, they're Facebook friends or whatever and the ugly cow is shagging her sister, still. It's just that they haven't actually seen each other since the day after Emily dumped her (which she knows now how it went down) and old habits die hard. She looks instead to Emily and grins.
“Surprise!”
Emily's face seems to do this weird thing where it's like she's trying to do every expression possible at the same time. Eventually it settles on pleased and she holds out her arms for a hug. Katie arches an eyebrow, and surveys her sister for a second before noticing Naomi's got the very same look of genuine confusion on her face. She jumps from the sofa and walks over, if only to give herself something to do other than glare at the blonde standing so bloody close to her sister. It's like their auras need to constantly be humping or something. She squeezes her eyes closed as she hugs Emily tight. She missed her too much, and feels a little more complete beside her.
When they separate, Naomi's gone and Emily's eyes are sparkling, boring holes into her. She stares into the nearly identical brown eyes with the same intensity before Emily finally relents and speaks. “I'm glad you finally came.” She moves over to the stack of dishes. “If you had told me, I would have cleared up a little, you know. Tidied and made up the place suitable for company.”
“It's fine, Ems. Seriously,” she interrupts.
When Emily returns from the kitchen after making a racket of dumping the dishes into the sink, Katie sits down again and picks up her beer. It shouldn't be this awkward. They're family, twins for fuck's sake but she can't think of a single thing to say now. The only things that seem to be present in her mind are the same pathetic questions distant relatives ask at various holiday gatherings. 'How's school going?', 'Anything exciting happen lately?', 'How's that blonde thing you're dating doing? Still buffing her beaver every night?'. The usual. She sees Cook studying her and wiggles her fingers at him, silently asking for the nearly finished spliff. He acquiesces with a dirty grin. “You can finish it.”
She nods, quirks her lips and looks around briefly before inhaling. She almost coughs; it's been a while. Still, practiced smoke rings emerge from her lips. She glances around again and Emily's darting around pushing various objects into random corners.
“Where'd Naomi go?” she asks and trains her eyes on her sister's back. There's a lazy wave in the general direction of what she can assume is a bedroom door before she turns, hands limply on her hips, and faces Katie.
“Are you going to be nice?” she asks abruptly and Cook chuckles in his chair. Katie really tries to look offended but realises the attempt is failing magnificently. Instead she grits her teeth.
“Yes.” Cook giggles louder at her statement and she idly tosses a magazine at him. “She's your, whatever, yeah? And, like, you love each other.”
Emily narrows her eyes as she watches Katie toke again. “She's my girlfriend,” she says with a thin layer of smugness.
“Right. And we're all grown ups.” There is a large guffaw from the general direction of Cook and she finally rolls her eyes. “Fuck off,” she groans at him before returning her attention to her sister. “Ems, past is past.” She's serious, or at least she's trying to be. She swears they've had this exactly conversation numerous times on the phone already. She wonders if Naomi is afraid of her. That would be a first.
Emily relaxes and smiles again, plucking the remaining joint from Katie's fingers and inhaling deeply. Katie watches with an air of appreciation she never had before. “But we're not going to be, like, best mates or anything.”
There's a funny look on her sister's face, and she smirks. “Good. Naomi doesn't need any more best mates. The one she has is shitty enough.” And then Emily laughs as Cook squints at her, wagging his finger.
“You, Little Fitch, are a proper runt,” he whispers, before breaking out in a huge grin.
“And you are going to be late for work - again.”
Cook reaches over and gulps down some of Katie's lager, before pounding his chest and standing up, stretching. Katie can't help herself. “You're going like that?”
He grins again, like he's got a secret even with bloodshot eyes. “Well, princess, there is nothing in the world better for rush-hour crowds on London's fine Underground than a little bit of relaxation. It makes the unbearable bearable. Wanna come with?” He waggles his eyebrows at her as best he can under the circumstances as Emily hands him a pair of quite stylish sunglasses. Placing them on top of his head, he struts towards the door. “Ladies, I will see you when the Bow Bells doth sound thrice!” With an exaggerated flourish, Cook closes the door behind himself and disappears. Emily screws up her face in contemplation.
Katie narrows her eyes. “I don't remember him being so weird.”
Emily sighs but stays otherwise silent, her eyes trained sadly on the closed door and Katie realises there's so much she doesn't know anymore.
It is fucking surreal being in this situation, watching Emily and her minger girlfriend poke and piddle around their tacky kitchen like little domesticated housewives, preparing some sort of vaguely edible tea for her. She thinks she should offer to help as well, but it's too bloody bizarre to be bearing witness to this scene. She wonders about buying them matching “Kiss the Cook” aprons for next Christmas, but realises that the idea just prompts completely unbidden images of a threesome with Cook. No, she doesn't want to see that - or be the cause of it - ever. Disgusting. They're whispering something to each other and it just makes her feel ever more like this whole visit was a shit idea because they've obviously got their own world that she no longer has even the smallest place in.
Two years ago that knowledge would have stung, provoked her into some sort of ridiculously dramatic and potentially dangerous action. But she's pretty sure the blow to the head caused her spirit to bleed out as well, and when Emily finally left Bristol, whatever leftover droplets she had been holding onto were siphoned away with her. Now, she just accepts losing her sister as one of those things that she deserves. She deserves to be miserable, living in a half-empty bedroom in her mother's house, working a less than wonderful job just to give her something to do. Her new friends are fine. They don't know about college. They wouldn't care even if they did, not because they like her for who she is or any of that bollocks, just because they don't really give a shit about anything. Like a whole group of Cooks. But she convinces herself it's fine because they get fucking lashed with her 4 nights a week, sometimes she'll get shagged by one of them (usually Matt) and it's not that she's particularly fond of him, but he fancies her and that's enough. Pandora is just about the only person, other than her sister, she still speaks to from college because talking with Panda is like therapy: she nods a lot, smiles and often says half-mad, philosophical-sounding things that make Katie believe that not everyone hates her all the time. But Katie blows her off far too often for the lure of dark clubs and amphetamines to think that they're best mates.
She's a shit twin, shit girlfriend and and a fucking useless friend. So, she sits and watches her positively glowing other half grin at the same blonde twat that had ripped them apart. And it's fucking pathetic how she can't even be angry at that because Naomi is just as bloody loved up. More than anything she's plain jealous, in a hopeless and kind of self-loathing way.
Then the hippie cow turns to her, spoon in hand, and asks if she likes green or red peppers as if it really matters. Katie wants to punch her in her stupid foodie-inclined face but she settles for muttering “red” before looking away, anywhere but at the eyes that are set on her like lasers. It's a good thing Naomi has never been that remarkable at reading people. She is no Effy, that's for damn sure and so, as awkward as she feels with Naomi studying her, she feels safe enough.
With a resigned sigh, she stands and leaves the kitchen, not willing to be party to whatever lame experiment Emily and Naomi Cuntface have going but after staring blankly at her reflection in the bathroom mirror for a few minutes, she grows bored. It's the same worn and tired face that she sees every fucking day. Something has to change. And being here, in London, a new place, granted, but with old people, she doesn't really see how that's supposed to work. The one person she never wanted to be is the person she became. That sad loser who looks back to when they were 16 and says “Those were the best times of my life!” and honestly means it, even when they're 42. Like her mum. She's slowly transforming into her and it seems futile to fight and there's a suddenly spark of fire inside her belly when she considers Emily's escape. Emily, the arsey spaz, has got it all together (with potentially the worse person in the human race, but that bit can be ignored for now) and yet she's supposed to be the fucking Queen Bee. She's the older twin, the trailblazer. Being jealous of her younger twin was never something she thought would happen in a million years.
And she's sick as hell of hearing James ask their mum or dad what wicked and amazing thing Emily's been up to lately. From the looks of it here, she doesn't do much of anything except go to lecture and shag Naomi, neither of which seem all that exciting really so she doesn't get what the huge fucking deal is. Making her way back to the kitchen, she tries to act nonchalant about the current situation.
But that is made doubly difficult when she catches them mid-snog, Emily pushing Naomi up against the counter. It makes her stomach flip in a weird, nostalgic kind of way that isn't entirely unpleasant. Maybe it's because she knows that's what love looks like, or maybe because it's almost like all those years ago, in middle school, when she first saw it. It's like time has reversed: she has a second chance, and this time she doesn't come raging in, screaming and throwing a half-full beer can at Naomi's scrotty little blonde head. She clears her throat instead and waits in the doorway.
Naomi drops the half-cut pepper on the floor, and her cheeks flush redder than Katie thinks she has ever seen them. It's not like she caught them fucking or anything and Katie narrows her eyes, seeing Emily casually wipe at her lips, before running a thumb under Naomi's. She is grinning like a fucking wanker of massive proportions and all Katie can do to stop herself from shitting a brick, is bite down on her cheek, hard.
“We're in love,” Emily states, plainly as day. As if it's some sort of justification for rubbing Katie's nose in it.
Katie purposely looks as unimpressed as humanly possible. “No shit.”
Naomi waves a carrot at Katie. “Jealous, Katiekins?” She asks and actually bloody winks as she delicately bites off the tip. There's a pause as Katie tries to work out why she doesn't feel the sick rising immediately to the back of her throat.
“Oh of you shagging my sister, you mean?” comes her snappy response, if a little delayed. “Not sodding likely, you lezza perv.” She tries to remain serious but a small smirk betrays her and Naomi catches it immediately and laughs, and for the love of Christ, she winks at her again. “And I hate to break it to you, Campbell, but your skanky muff is not on my list of things to see in this lifetime.”
“Maybe the next then?” She arches an eyebrow and smirks in a less-insufferable way than usual.
Bloody hell, Naomi fucking Campbell is flirting with her. Of all the situations in the world that could make her impossibly uncomfortable, she has to get stuck in this one. She wouldn't exactly call it a nightmare, but it's so unreal that she's actually at a loss for words.
She manages to mumble a halfhearted “Whatever.” before seeing Emily smile at Naomi and their silent exchange. She groans loudly, her spirit renewed. “I didn't come all the way here so you two could have a go at me, so get your dykey asses back to the hob and make me some food.” She's incredibly pleased at just how firmly that came out of her mouth.
Emily chuckles and goes back to busying herself with the veg. “I've missed you, Katie,” she says offhandedly as she rinses a bowl in the sink.
Both Naomi and Katie stare at Emily momentarily, before the blonde resumes her chopping and Katie allows herself to smile sincerely. That was all she really needed to hear.
The goddamn sofa is not meant for sleeping on, she's completely convinced. She's well pissed off at Naomi for insisting that it was perfectly acceptable and Cook's used it numerous times with no complaint. So, she is forced to learn for herself that it's not only hideous but it's also useless, and Katie's pretty sure the only reason Naomi feels the need to talk it up so bloody much is because its hers and mirrors her personality. Knowing the cheap twat, she probably nicked it from the dump. She automatically scratches at her scalp just as the mere thought of the cushions crawling with lice come into consciousness. This whole thing is getting ridiculous. Emily and her unashamedly-lying girlfriend went into their room hours ago and Katie wishes she could say they were asleep but every so often there's an odd noise, sometimes a thump, sometimes a giggle but most of it is too muffled to be definitive. It's better that way because she really, really, really doesn't want to hear anything. The TV may be a good distraction. Just as she tunes into a programme on water purification, there's the sound of a key in the lock and Cook stumbles in, trips over a corner of the rug, and falls into the wall beside him. Katie can't tell if it's because he's mashed or because it's dark and he just has shit night vision.
It's only when he attempts to flop onto the sofa that he notices her there. Her nose turns up at the scent of stale alcohol and cigarettes and she momentarily wonders how the fuck Emily of all people can tolerate him.
“You stink,” she mumbles as he slumps into the armchair.
“I work at a club, babe,” he reminds her, much more sober sounding than she anticipated. He strips off his shirt and tosses it onto the floor and reaches for a pipe, pulling a baggy from his trousers. There's the overwhelming curiousity about exactly what kind of club he supposedly works at. She rolls her eyes in the dark but continues to watch him in the blue flicker of the TV light. There's a flash of fire as he pulls in the aromatic smoke. “Better?” he asks, exhaling strongly, as if he truly wonders about her answer. When she doesn't respond, he continues. “Wanna hit?”
“No, Cook. It's 2 AM.” She pauses. “You're an idiot, do you get that?”
“You're a nag,” he replies. “Relax, Katiekins. This is serious draw. It makes the shipping forecast sound like a shitting symphony. If you're having trouble sleeping...” He trails off with his suggestion actually seeming more appealing the longer he talks to her. Maybe she should just go for it and pass out. “I missed this, you know? Me, having fun. You trying to stop me from having fun. It's like old times.” He chuckles a little but puts the pipe down without finishing the bowl.
Katie isn't sure whether it's kind of like a compliment or what, and with all the strange signals she's been getting all day, she doesn't even want to hazard a guess. She lays on the settee, curling into the blanket as he stares blankly at the television. Somehow, the silence is actually comfortable. It's been a very long time since she just spent time just doing nothing with anyone. He raps his fingertips against the chair cushions for a moment before breaking the quiet.
“That sofa is shit, yeah. If you want, you can have my bed.” The offer surprises her and she wants to ask when he became a gentleman. Instead she resorts to the familiar.
“No thanks, I don't want, like, chlamydia or something.”
“Funny.”
She shrugs and smirks. “It's what I do.”
Suddenly a tense kind of silence descends and she can tell he's about to say something uncomfortable just by the intake of breath. “I thought shagging all my best mates was more like your specialty.”
It hurts. Much more painfully that she ever expected. Maybe it's the blunt, heartless way he says the words, or maybe it's the fact she's never had anyone actually tell the truth to her face like that. But maybe it's because she doesn't know what provoked it and why he is suddenly trying to upset her.
“And the love of my life,” he adds bitterly.
Fuck. He knew about fucking Effy. Well, Effy fucking her. Shit. Of course that fucking slag would tell him. They probably wanked each other off talking about it. “Yeah well, obviously she wasn't getting something from you.” Her tone is sharp and angry, if only to mask how fucking crap she feels, how much she wants to bawl her eyes out. More than anything she wants to tell him that it was just a stupid one-off at a stupid house party cos Effy was a stupid, drugged-up, horny twat 99% of the time. And Katie just happened to be completely and utterly off her face and thoroughly depressed, which is partly why she hadn't even remembered the shitting thing until a few months ago. It still made her skin crawl. Not surprisingly, it wasn't something she was proud of. “So, whatever, Cook, go tell my sister and Naomi, you all can have a good laugh, alright? Just fuck off.”
Cook blows out a heavy breath out through clenched teeth but he doesn't respond.
“For your fucking information, she fucked me. It's called making a mistake.” Her voice has gotten louder, she thinks. Maybe they're going to have an all out proper row. It wouldn't be the first time. It happened with Cook in his final months in Bristol more often than it had happened with Naomi in all of college. It seemed that Cook was the only one who was able to provoke any sort of impassioned response of any kind, especially after her overwhelming anger at Effy had dissipated in light of their paltry (and mostly tenuous) reconciliation the summer before the final year of college. And the sodding bugger seemed to still possess that certain knack. However, it only really worked when he fought back. This time he was just sitting there, seemingly expecting more abuse. The stupid tosser was even more fucked up than she remembered.
Running a hand over his face, he yawns. Loudly. “Fair enough, Kates. Just had to clear the air, yeah? Forgiven, over and done.” It's like he's ticking off something on a messed up to-do list.
“You fucking prick,” she grumbles.
He grins then, seemingly forgetting completely about the last 5 minutes. “You still want to shag me.” He stretches a leg out and nudges her with his toes. Repeatedly. It's annoying.
She's pretty sure her eyebrows have jumped so far up her forehead they're hidden in her hair by now. “Still? I never wanted to shag you. You're a child.”
He laughs louder. “Ah come on, Katiekins! You want it. We're like the missing pieces, yeah?” He continues laughing. “You've shagged everyone else. I've shagged everyone else so -.”
His completely deplorable come-on is cut short by her interruption. “Campbell?”
He nods vigorously, with the ugliest shit-eating grin on his mug, and the disturbing mental image is a little more than her brain can handle at this time of night.
“Emily?” Her voice betrays just how equally curious and repulsed she is by the concept.
If she thought he was laughing hard before, he it was nothing to the sound that erupts from his throat now. “Your sister is two things: incredibly faithful to Blondie, and, this is sort of a secret,” he leans closer to the redhead. “Gay.” He bursts out laughing again and she huffs in annoyance. “Like '100%, no cock, no way' gay.” He puts to fingers up to his lips and makes incredibly loud licking noises. She thinks that she may actually murder him tonight.
Before she has the chance to find a sharp object, Naomi, full of piss and vinegar, comes barrelling out of her bedroom, in little more than a large t-shirt, and without warning, pummels him over the head. It makes an impressive thwack sound and he flinches. “Shut up! Go to bed. Some of us are sleeping!”
“Oi, Margaret Thatcher, give us a break!” He kicks out a foot in her general direction to keep her back, but still goading her. “Me and Kates here are just having a little chin wag about your Ems' loyalties.”
“You bloody wanker,” she practically snarls. “I have classes tomorrow morning! And you,” she looks down at Katie, “Stop encouraging him.”
God, she was an amazingly stroppy bitch when she was overtired. As she stalks back to her room, Katie flips her off which Cook grins at. For some reason, she supposes this is kind of like a routine for them.
“Bitch. Maybe if she stopped tongue-fucking my sister for 5 minutes, she'd get some rest,” she grumbles, mostly to herself, but it's quiet enough that Cook hears her comment too.
He claps once. Loudly. And on purpose, in the direction of Naomi and Emily's room. “Brilliant.”
Despite the roller-coaster of the last 20 minutes, she reckons they actually connect on some screwed-up level. And, well, he looks more fit than he did in college...
Emily bunks off her lectures for the day to spend time with Katie, and Katie for her part has to resist letting it slip that she got off with Cook the night before. It wasn't like she planned to, but she had found a particularly hard lump in the couch that she couldn't manoeuvre around and Cook was still there, in his chair, scoffing at her attempts and repeatedly telling her she was welcome to his bed. He had promised to take the sofa but as she gathered her pillow, she told him they were responsible adults now.
They both had known it wouldn't remain platonic but Katie needed something that she only seemed to find in the sweat and rhythm of sex, and Cook, well, he was just falling slowly apart. Even she could see that and she'd only spent the better part of 12 hours with the dickhead; he grasped at anything in the vain hope of redemption, or some sort of escape.. The knowledge was reflected in Emily every time she looked in his direction, and Naomi's occasionally pitying stares. She didn't think anyone deserved to be looked at like that. It was probably the same way everyone looked at her now. So she had yanked on his hand and he followed her without resistance into the bedroom.
They hadn't shagged. Not really. She actually hadn't done a thing really, other than a little middle school groping, but she could say that either the boy was born with a natural talent, or he had learnt a little too well from living with two massive lezzas. His mouth did things between her thighs that she had never felt before, and it was really too much of a blur to concentrate on what techniques he even used. Not that she cared. Not that she could even ask Emily if he learnt a few tips and tricks from them.
She runs the tip of her tongue along her bottom lip and feels the small lump of scabbed tissue from biting down too hard. Emily's chatting about something that she stopped paying attention to ages ago. She vaguely hears the mention of Naomi's name and remembers why she stopped listening. Her face flushes instead with flashbacks of the night, and she wiggles a little as she walks to subtly adjust her pants.
It's only when Emily links her arm through hers that Katie actually begins paying a little more attention to the conversation.
“...so then Naomi says that it's really not about that, you know? Christ, it was impressive. I'm telling you, Katie, that tosser just didn't know what to say.”
Katie gazes over to her sister's smiling, distant face. Despite them not actually walking into any other pedestrians or lampposts and the like, it looks like Emily's lost in her own world and Katie wonders how the fuck it's possible to be so bloody smitten with someone for so long. Surely, the thrill should have died down at least a little bit by now. Especially with a cuntish person like Naomi who seems to purposely try to destroy everything she touches. Katie can't even get a guy to just like her for long enough to get a lousy birthday card from Poundland. It's all too much to hear: the happy lilt in Emily's voice, with that fucking dopey smile on her face, the way she just gushes over the blonde heifer. She honestly afraid that any moment, her sister is just going to swoon with recollections of how wonderful Naomi fucking Campbell is. That would be well embarrassing.
“Don't you have anything else to talk about?” she snaps and suddenly Emily's eyes cloud over with anger. Shit. She's fucked up again. She attempts to take it back. “Not that your girlfriend isn't an intensely interesting topic of conversation.” It ends up being far too sarcastic and sharp to be any sort of apology. Emily just stares. She seems to do that far too often now, like she's looking for something constantly and it's awkward because it's not like Effy who you could literally feel creeping around inside your head, or Naomi who tries the same and just fails miraculously at it. Emily is different, she just studies the outside, like it's all a puzzle and she's fitting pieces together: a crinkle of the eyes, a quirk of the lips, the misting of tears threatening to build. They are just pieces. She wonders if Emily actually succeeds, ever.
It's only when a middle-aged woman with far too many New Look bags for her age knocks into her shoulder that she realises they're stopped in the middle of the pavement. There's not really any point in lying.
“I can't stand it, Emily,” Katie huffs and drags her sister over to window of some tacky souvenir shop, out of the way of the pushy, rush-hour crowd. Emily is still fucking staring, squinting a little. It's driving Katie mental and she wants so badly to just knock her in the face. “I can't listen to you go on and on about Naomi anymore. I can't take it. On the phone that's all I hear, when I visit it's all I hear. I get it, okay? You love her. You think she's the greatest fucking thing since strap-ons were invented. Just leave it be now. Okay? It's you and me. We have more to talk about than her.” Her miniature tirade comes to a close and Emily actually looks less angry, and far more guilty. She looks down at her shoes, kicking feebly at a pebble and suddenly Katie doesn't see the new Emily anymore. She's the shy, beaten-down version of herself that existed in middle school. Almost as if, when Naomi isn't in her mind, she loses everything. They stand in silence as Katie feels the sick rising at what she's done. Again and again, they come back to this. It feels worse each time she exerts this power over her twin. The rush is gone.
“I don't want to talk about this here,” Emily finally mumbles at the pavement. “Please, Katie.”
It's so wrong to hear her like this now, so bloody defeated. She wants Emily to fight and she certainly doesn't want to face Naomi back at the flat when the blonde sees how, in the matter of 4 hours, Katie's managed to suck the strength out of her girlfriend. She's faced off with Naomi over Emily multiple times before, and come out on the losing side every single time. She has no desire to repeat the experience.
She considers revealing what she and Cook got up to but decides that it probably will only disgust Emily, not actually cheer her up. She opts instead for the obvious.
“I'm sorry, okay Ems? I just...” she trails off and catches Emily raising her gaze to Katie's face. “It makes me feel left out.” Honesty. A nice touch, she thinks. Then Emily, the stupid cow, just shrugs. Actually shrugs. It's infuriating how blasé the twat could be about her pouring her heart out on a bloody London street corner.
“Maybe if you were as buff as me, you'd have your own completely amazing girl-- boyfriend to talk about,” Emily says, the hint of a grin on her face, daring Katie to respond.
“Oh go on,” she groans and turns her back to her younger sister, walking towards the intersection. “Wanker.”
Emily catches up to her, easily falling instep, and linking their arms again.
Katie didn't realise that she wasn't the only one who could effectively deflate Emily within a couple seconds. As Emily pushes open the door to her flat and walks in, she sees the obvious slump of her twin's shoulders. She pushes her own way inside and glances over to see what the issue is. Naomi, the supposed love of her life, is with Cook on the sofa, in what appears to be the most innocent of cuddles. Katie grimaces at her sister's reaction and then curiously looks back towards the sofa, standing on tip-toe, trying to peer over it to see exactly what Emily is so upset about.
Emily however merely dumps her bag beside a chair and wanders to the kitchen. Katie takes the opportunity to sink down in the armchair that Cook normally occupies and studies the two people. Cook flashes her a weird kind of smile that she's not sure if it's supposed to be inviting or repulsive. Naomi is just plain asleep, her head resting on Cook's chest, curled up around him.
“She's asleep,” he whispers and points at Naomi laying on him.
Katie rolls her eyes. “I'm not fucking blind, Cook.” Any affection she had felt for him the night before somehow evaporates in less than 60 seconds. She says the words loud enough to wake Naomi, and happily succeeds. The blonde raises her head and looks over at Katie with a look of bafflement, like she had forgot Katie was even staying with them. And without moving an inch really, she yawns and calls for Emily, breaking the silence in the flat. Katie's not sure what to make of this. Bellowing for her sister, for apparently no reason was peculiar behaviour - even for Naomi - but she doesn't really have time to think on it before Emily appears beside her, leaning against the armrest, looking down at Naomi in a mildly disinterested fashion.
“What?”
Katie's eyebrows shoot up when she hears the sharpness of her sister's tone. It apparently has no impact whatsoever on Naomi however.
“C'mere. I missed you today,” she grumbles and wiggles around to free herself from Cook, and propping herself up best as she can.
There's something odd about the entire conversation and Katie's not sure if it's because she's never seen Naomi quite so needy and stupid and trying so hard to be adorable, or if she's never seen her sister so sour towards her girlfriend. (When she wasn't her girlfriend, that reaction was understandable.) Especially after their afternoon of shopping and blathering on about Naomi for 3 hours straight. She looks to the blonde minger, who is practically pouting. And then to Cook who looks as completely bored as humanly possible, as if this was an everyday occurrence. And given her experience during her total of 27 hour stay so far, it is quite possible it is. Naomi pushes herself upright, pushes Cook's legs out of her way and Emily finally relents, coming round to Naomi. Wasting no time at all, the disgusting lezza perv has grappled her twin onto straddling her lap and sealed their faces together so tightly that Katie is fairly certain they will stick like that. Cook makes some sort of annoyed grunt sound and kicks Naomi's arse with his foot, forcing her towards the opposite end of the settee.
It's then that Katie sees the look on his face. He's not even close to perving on them. He's well pissed off by the open showing of affection. And, with something resembling shock, she realises he's jealous too. Lonely. The thought annoys her more than it should because it means they're even more similar than she thought. Meanwhile, being in the same room as her sister making out is a little too weird and she feels twinges of revulsion at bearing witness to this. She glances down and unfortunately sees the subtle movement of Emily grinding her hips rhythmically into Naomi's. For fuck's sake.
“Are they always this disrespectful?” Katie asks loudly and pointedly, towards her disgusting sister though she's obviously speaking to Cook. He looks so fucking relieved that she's talking to him, giving him a distraction.
“Just about.”
The comments seem to make absolutely no impact on the couple, especially as Naomi's hands slide up under the green top of the girl on her lap.
“Right,” Katie snorts and pulls herself out of her seat, walking purposely over to them. Cook is watching with a mixture of appreciation and confusion. She grabs Emily by the collar and just yanks her away as hard as possible. The younger twin ends up falling backwards onto the floor, letting a string of obscenities loose upon her offending sister. Naomi looks like she's just about to boil over with rage but she doesn't attempt to help Emily up. When Emily's done swearing at her, she shrugs.
“You two are the rudest fucking cunts in existence,” she states, glaring at her sister on the floor and then to Naomi.
“That's fucking rich, Katie,” Naomi growls. “Did you just not see what you did?”
“You have company, Naomi,” she stresses Naomi's name as if it's an insult. “I don't give a fuck what you two homos do in your bedroom but I'm your guest and you should have some bloody class, not that you'd really know much about that.” She smirks in the practised way she became so accustomed to in college, that quirk of the mouth like she knows exactly how right she is with one eyebrow raised in silent challenge. Naomi narrows her eyes but doesn't argue. Cook looks on in surprise, his mouth half-open. Emily stands up, pulling down her top. She pauses before slapping the side of her sister's head and stomping off.
It doesn't really hurt and Katie barely winces. It was pretty much expected. She just continues to stare Naomi down until the blonde shifts her eyes and slinks out of the room. When their bedroom door slams shut, she falls down next to Cook on the ridiculously uncomfortable couch. They sit in a silence for a while, blankly staring at the television. He doesn't even attempt to pull out a spliff. She wonders if he's as numb as she feels.
She's not sure how many minutes pass before his fingers creep out and intertwine with hers. It's so timid and soft that she practically spins her face around to make sure it's the same boy that used to throw careless punches at gangsters and drug lords and heavily paw at her when he thought she was drunk enough to appreciate it. (She never did. She was never that drunk.) His hand is cold but warms after a moment in hers. She thinks he mumbles a thank you, but it may have just been the television programme.
Fucking insanity, she thinks. Of all people, she's pretty sure that she actually is friends with James Cook now. Fuck.
Cook doesn't come home from work that night.
Neither Emily nor Naomi seem to consider this odd. It's only 2 days later when they've still had no word from him that the worry begins to creep over Naomi's face. When she texts him and sits on the sofa like a statue, waiting for a response for about an hour straight, Emily places a hand on her knee and the look in her eyes says exactly what Katie was dreading too. Naomi sets her jaw, repressing her emotions defiantly, but Katie can see the fear there, sneaking out through her cracks.
COOK
Stupid fucking bitch. Fucking cunts!
He tears down an alleyway, dodging around rubbish bins at an impressive pace as he tries to lose the cops plodding away behind him. It's made increasingly difficult by the fact the quadruple drop of molly he took just a while earlier is now at a full on, massive roll. Fuck, he'd rather take the sodding pills than be caught with them and done for possession or some shit. There's an empty-looking bin ahead and he clambers into it quickly and closes the lid behind himself.
It stinks inside and he's fairly certain there's maggots crawling over his trainers and into his socks. But fuck if it's not absolute the best bin he's ever been in. It's quiet, peaceful but the pitch dark is making him slightly nauseated. As soon as he's sure the police have ran on ahead, he lets a stomach full of sick loose in the confined space and feels only slightly relieved. Peeking out, he sees a clear alley and ends up knocking over the bin as he attempts to climb out, managing to cover himself in a mixture of vomit and maggots, something that would no doubt cause any weaker man to heave all over again. But not him. He's a fucking rockstar, innit.
Brushing off the somehow adorable little bugs, he peers around blearily at his unfamiliar surroundings. What the fuck... The streetlamps beyond are casting a pleasant soft glow through the London fog. He moves towards them. His pocket feels bulky and he fingers around to pull out a decently sized wrap of coke. Definitely for selling. He lets out a boisterous laugh at the shit luck he would have had if not for that rubbish bin. He snorts a bump, feeling the drip and his senses clearing slightly. The nausea is still there though.
He stumbles slightly as he begins to walk again towards the lights, pulling out a spliff from another pocket and laughing even harder at his magical pockets of never-ending drugs. He forgets that they're for profit, not for use. Blondie would shit herself if she knew he didn't have a real job, even if he's so damn good at the one he has it pays better than a shelf-stocker at Iceland. He chuckles, thinking about her face. Taking a long drag, he sits down on the kerb.
He's not sure how long he's been sat there, staring at the trails of the occasional car going by but a drizzle has begun and his tee shirt is getting damp with more than just sweat. Across the road, a shadow stands against a letterbox. He squints, as if it helps at all. It moves into the light and it takes less than a second for him to recognise the glint of blue eyes. He wants to run to her, but he can't seem to move, frozen to the pavement.
“Effy!” he calls out, his voice breaking on the second syllable. He just wants to fucking move. The frustration builds the harder he tries. It doesn't make sense. Part of him knows it's bullshit, that she's a figment of his drug-addled imagination and he wonders briefly about the purity of his gear. But fuck, he misses her so fucking much so he chooses to ignore the remaining rationality. She moves even further into the light, smirking at him and curling her index finger, calling him silently. But she's still mostly a shadow and he wants to be beside her, to see her clearly. He finally manages to get to his feet and darts out rapidly if haphazardly towards the shadow.
He doesn't even see the lights speeding towards him on rain-slick asphalt.
End Part 1. Part 2 is here.
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Author: eskimo_jo
Disclaimer: The names of all characters contained here-in are the property of Skins, Company Pictures, & Channel4. No infringements of these copyrights are intended, and are used here without permission.
Pairing: Naomi/Emily, Katie/Effy, Cook/Naomi, Cook/Katie, Cook/Effy. Cookie loves everyone :) [Mentions of others as well.]
Category: Angst/Romance
Rating: R.
Warnings: Language, character death, adult and disturbing scenes, hard drug use
Summary: When Katie decides to visit her sister in London, she throws everyone's lives into upheaval, prompting Emily to question her commitment to her girlfriend in light of Naomi's complicated relationship with Cook.
Notes: Quite Katie-centric, it seems. A sequel to Collision. I didn't mean to make a trilogy, but I swear this is the last part. Gotta keep things fresh. Please see previous parts for the backstory. Though it mostly picks up at the end of the second story, it does reference some things in the first as well. I would have put this up earlier, but I've spent a good week and a bit editing the damn thing. (Which means little to nothing in the long run cos I'm sure it's chock full of mistakes still. Ugh.)
There is also possibly the most massive fanmix I've ever made available here. It's pretty sad and angsty too. *sigh* I really do think they're particularly fitting this time around.
Also, again, HERE is the PDF in full-sheet. HERE is the PDF in booklet form.
[NB: The PDF contains more mistakes than the web-version due to editing/laziness, heh.]
“Love - any love - reveals us in our nakedness, our misery, our vulnerability, our nothingness.”
~ Cesare Pavese, 1908-1950.
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KATIE
It's the middle of a particularly grey, cold and rainy March and coming into the heart of London hasn't made that any brighter. Obviously. She doesn't think she can imagine anything more depressing than this stupid, grubby neighbourhood under this horrid weather. She didn't know it was possible for there to be a place worse than Bristol, but here she is, learning that the hard way. And for no good reason, either. It had seemed like a brilliant idea 3 days ago. It wasn't until she was staring out the train, zooming past hills and cooling towers, that she actually realised what she was actually doing.
So she stands at the intercom, debating. Getting here really wasn't as fucking difficult as Emily had made out. Her sister never was good with directions, giving her even more reason to be a leader back in college.
Her fingertips hover above the 3-digit call number. She memorised it on the tube to prevent herself from looking like a lost and confused easy target when she arrived. But that meant fuck all now considering she couldn't even work up the courage to visit her own damn sister. She takes a deep breath and scans over all the entries in the directory. She doesn't even see a familiar name next to the number she knows is Emily's. Figures. Judging by the state of the place, it isn't exactly kept up to high quality standards by the landlord.
The whine of a door hinge needing oil causes her to turn around. She almost rolls her eyes at her luck.
James Cook stands stunned in the doorway, key in one hand and a large paper bag full of what she can only assume is liquor in the other.
“Hey stranger,” he says in a voice that Katie has never heard before. Almost like shock.
“Cook,” she greets in kind. He glances behind him, to see if she is with anyone before turning back to her with a strange expression. He's probably surprised that she could actually find the flat considering he was likely used to her useless sister getting lost everytime she went outside.
“Forget the code?” he asks.
She nods, accepting the lie he offers. “I'm here to see Emily. She called a while ago, yeah? Said I should,” she pauses mid-sentence to give the lobby a once-over again and tries not to turn up her nose further. “Come round and see the place.” It's hesitant. It isn't that it isn't the truth, but she still isn't convinced that at the time the offer was extended, it was sincere. She's about to find out. He notices her reluctance.
He shoves the off-license bag into her arms, ignoring the rather large overnight bag on the mat beside her, and opens the inner door. Only when it's held open with his foot does he motion for her to hand him the bags. He trades her for the keys and lugs her bag and his towards the stairwell. She follows him without saying anything even though her mind is racing with pleasantries that she knows she's supposed to offer. There's something about a dead sober, less-than-exuberant Cook that unnerves her however and she stays quiet as well.
Inside the flat is nothing like she expected from the exterior. With grudging acceptance, she notes that it's actually sort of nice. It smells nice anyway even if there's crap littered all over the worn coffee table and a pile of dishes on the sofa. (Really? She can't imagine Emily ever settling for this sodding shit-tip after the childhood they had.) But they have some fairy lights up, a few decent pieces of furniture from IKEA, and a bunch of plants that neither smell rank nor feel like they're crowding the space. And a fucking wicked television smack dab in the middle of it all. She can see into the tiny kitchen from her spot in the living room and it's typical. And messy.
“Welcome to our humble abode,” he announces proudly after a moment of her silence, spreading his arms wide and grinning. She offers a weak smile. It's the best she can do if she wants it to be genuine. “Make yourself at home, babe.”
When the word falls from his lips, she's immediately taken back and realises that she's never heard 'babe' ever sound quite as right as when it comes from him. It brings back memories of before. Before Effy smashed her over the head in the woods; before Emily and Naomi broke up for the (then) last time; before fucking stupid Effy went and overdosed, the dumb cunt, and before Emily moved away to bloody Durham.
She smiles wider. “Where's Emily?”
He shrugs indifferently and begins unpacking the contents of his shopping bag into a bar fridge beside the TV. Lagers. Obviously. “Uni probably, doing her best to rid the world of ignorance... or getting pissed and flashing her tits. Whatever you ladies do there.”
Katie wants to correct him but keeps schtum on that topic in favour of asking another question. “What are you doing here? Middle of the day and all.”
He looks up from his position, his eyes lingering a little too long on her breasts before meeting her eyes. “Don't have work 'til later. You're stuck with me... Liquor? Spliff?” He offers with a wink at her as she moves over to him.
She sighs, a little dramatically. “Whatever. I'm easy.”
He raises his eyebrows at her comment and hands her a moderately cool can of Fosters. “Tease.” The smirk that spreads across his face is mirrored on her own. He tosses her the TV remote as she finally takes a seat on the sofa.
“Amuse yourself, but a word of warning: it's possible Blondie has locked-out every channel except Discovery and equally boring-as-fuck ones.” Katie smiles a little at his dismissive tone and tries out his theory. It's obviously a lie but she scrolls through the meagre offering of channels as she sips her beer anyway. Cook slumps into the armchair and she's a little disappointed that his cheekiness has pretty much evaporated. A year ago he would have slithered down beside her, a little too close, and done the whole yawn-and-stretch trick.
It's a little awkward being in this situation after having so much history. She really should have at least texted her keener sister on the way over. Her visit being a surprise was a terrible idea. She sees the spark of a lighter and a haze of smoke drifting her way. Then again, some things never change.
There's a bustle of movement on the other side of the door and soon Emily comes bursting in, followed by a rather breathless and dishevelled looking Naomi. Katie's lips automatically turn into a sneer and she has to try her best to repress it. After all, they're Facebook friends or whatever and the ugly cow is shagging her sister, still. It's just that they haven't actually seen each other since the day after Emily dumped her (which she knows now how it went down) and old habits die hard. She looks instead to Emily and grins.
“Surprise!”
Emily's face seems to do this weird thing where it's like she's trying to do every expression possible at the same time. Eventually it settles on pleased and she holds out her arms for a hug. Katie arches an eyebrow, and surveys her sister for a second before noticing Naomi's got the very same look of genuine confusion on her face. She jumps from the sofa and walks over, if only to give herself something to do other than glare at the blonde standing so bloody close to her sister. It's like their auras need to constantly be humping or something. She squeezes her eyes closed as she hugs Emily tight. She missed her too much, and feels a little more complete beside her.
When they separate, Naomi's gone and Emily's eyes are sparkling, boring holes into her. She stares into the nearly identical brown eyes with the same intensity before Emily finally relents and speaks. “I'm glad you finally came.” She moves over to the stack of dishes. “If you had told me, I would have cleared up a little, you know. Tidied and made up the place suitable for company.”
“It's fine, Ems. Seriously,” she interrupts.
When Emily returns from the kitchen after making a racket of dumping the dishes into the sink, Katie sits down again and picks up her beer. It shouldn't be this awkward. They're family, twins for fuck's sake but she can't think of a single thing to say now. The only things that seem to be present in her mind are the same pathetic questions distant relatives ask at various holiday gatherings. 'How's school going?', 'Anything exciting happen lately?', 'How's that blonde thing you're dating doing? Still buffing her beaver every night?'. The usual. She sees Cook studying her and wiggles her fingers at him, silently asking for the nearly finished spliff. He acquiesces with a dirty grin. “You can finish it.”
She nods, quirks her lips and looks around briefly before inhaling. She almost coughs; it's been a while. Still, practiced smoke rings emerge from her lips. She glances around again and Emily's darting around pushing various objects into random corners.
“Where'd Naomi go?” she asks and trains her eyes on her sister's back. There's a lazy wave in the general direction of what she can assume is a bedroom door before she turns, hands limply on her hips, and faces Katie.
“Are you going to be nice?” she asks abruptly and Cook chuckles in his chair. Katie really tries to look offended but realises the attempt is failing magnificently. Instead she grits her teeth.
“Yes.” Cook giggles louder at her statement and she idly tosses a magazine at him. “She's your, whatever, yeah? And, like, you love each other.”
Emily narrows her eyes as she watches Katie toke again. “She's my girlfriend,” she says with a thin layer of smugness.
“Right. And we're all grown ups.” There is a large guffaw from the general direction of Cook and she finally rolls her eyes. “Fuck off,” she groans at him before returning her attention to her sister. “Ems, past is past.” She's serious, or at least she's trying to be. She swears they've had this exactly conversation numerous times on the phone already. She wonders if Naomi is afraid of her. That would be a first.
Emily relaxes and smiles again, plucking the remaining joint from Katie's fingers and inhaling deeply. Katie watches with an air of appreciation she never had before. “But we're not going to be, like, best mates or anything.”
There's a funny look on her sister's face, and she smirks. “Good. Naomi doesn't need any more best mates. The one she has is shitty enough.” And then Emily laughs as Cook squints at her, wagging his finger.
“You, Little Fitch, are a proper runt,” he whispers, before breaking out in a huge grin.
“And you are going to be late for work - again.”
Cook reaches over and gulps down some of Katie's lager, before pounding his chest and standing up, stretching. Katie can't help herself. “You're going like that?”
He grins again, like he's got a secret even with bloodshot eyes. “Well, princess, there is nothing in the world better for rush-hour crowds on London's fine Underground than a little bit of relaxation. It makes the unbearable bearable. Wanna come with?” He waggles his eyebrows at her as best he can under the circumstances as Emily hands him a pair of quite stylish sunglasses. Placing them on top of his head, he struts towards the door. “Ladies, I will see you when the Bow Bells doth sound thrice!” With an exaggerated flourish, Cook closes the door behind himself and disappears. Emily screws up her face in contemplation.
Katie narrows her eyes. “I don't remember him being so weird.”
Emily sighs but stays otherwise silent, her eyes trained sadly on the closed door and Katie realises there's so much she doesn't know anymore.
It is fucking surreal being in this situation, watching Emily and her minger girlfriend poke and piddle around their tacky kitchen like little domesticated housewives, preparing some sort of vaguely edible tea for her. She thinks she should offer to help as well, but it's too bloody bizarre to be bearing witness to this scene. She wonders about buying them matching “Kiss the Cook” aprons for next Christmas, but realises that the idea just prompts completely unbidden images of a threesome with Cook. No, she doesn't want to see that - or be the cause of it - ever. Disgusting. They're whispering something to each other and it just makes her feel ever more like this whole visit was a shit idea because they've obviously got their own world that she no longer has even the smallest place in.
Two years ago that knowledge would have stung, provoked her into some sort of ridiculously dramatic and potentially dangerous action. But she's pretty sure the blow to the head caused her spirit to bleed out as well, and when Emily finally left Bristol, whatever leftover droplets she had been holding onto were siphoned away with her. Now, she just accepts losing her sister as one of those things that she deserves. She deserves to be miserable, living in a half-empty bedroom in her mother's house, working a less than wonderful job just to give her something to do. Her new friends are fine. They don't know about college. They wouldn't care even if they did, not because they like her for who she is or any of that bollocks, just because they don't really give a shit about anything. Like a whole group of Cooks. But she convinces herself it's fine because they get fucking lashed with her 4 nights a week, sometimes she'll get shagged by one of them (usually Matt) and it's not that she's particularly fond of him, but he fancies her and that's enough. Pandora is just about the only person, other than her sister, she still speaks to from college because talking with Panda is like therapy: she nods a lot, smiles and often says half-mad, philosophical-sounding things that make Katie believe that not everyone hates her all the time. But Katie blows her off far too often for the lure of dark clubs and amphetamines to think that they're best mates.
She's a shit twin, shit girlfriend and and a fucking useless friend. So, she sits and watches her positively glowing other half grin at the same blonde twat that had ripped them apart. And it's fucking pathetic how she can't even be angry at that because Naomi is just as bloody loved up. More than anything she's plain jealous, in a hopeless and kind of self-loathing way.
Then the hippie cow turns to her, spoon in hand, and asks if she likes green or red peppers as if it really matters. Katie wants to punch her in her stupid foodie-inclined face but she settles for muttering “red” before looking away, anywhere but at the eyes that are set on her like lasers. It's a good thing Naomi has never been that remarkable at reading people. She is no Effy, that's for damn sure and so, as awkward as she feels with Naomi studying her, she feels safe enough.
With a resigned sigh, she stands and leaves the kitchen, not willing to be party to whatever lame experiment Emily and Naomi Cuntface have going but after staring blankly at her reflection in the bathroom mirror for a few minutes, she grows bored. It's the same worn and tired face that she sees every fucking day. Something has to change. And being here, in London, a new place, granted, but with old people, she doesn't really see how that's supposed to work. The one person she never wanted to be is the person she became. That sad loser who looks back to when they were 16 and says “Those were the best times of my life!” and honestly means it, even when they're 42. Like her mum. She's slowly transforming into her and it seems futile to fight and there's a suddenly spark of fire inside her belly when she considers Emily's escape. Emily, the arsey spaz, has got it all together (with potentially the worse person in the human race, but that bit can be ignored for now) and yet she's supposed to be the fucking Queen Bee. She's the older twin, the trailblazer. Being jealous of her younger twin was never something she thought would happen in a million years.
And she's sick as hell of hearing James ask their mum or dad what wicked and amazing thing Emily's been up to lately. From the looks of it here, she doesn't do much of anything except go to lecture and shag Naomi, neither of which seem all that exciting really so she doesn't get what the huge fucking deal is. Making her way back to the kitchen, she tries to act nonchalant about the current situation.
But that is made doubly difficult when she catches them mid-snog, Emily pushing Naomi up against the counter. It makes her stomach flip in a weird, nostalgic kind of way that isn't entirely unpleasant. Maybe it's because she knows that's what love looks like, or maybe because it's almost like all those years ago, in middle school, when she first saw it. It's like time has reversed: she has a second chance, and this time she doesn't come raging in, screaming and throwing a half-full beer can at Naomi's scrotty little blonde head. She clears her throat instead and waits in the doorway.
Naomi drops the half-cut pepper on the floor, and her cheeks flush redder than Katie thinks she has ever seen them. It's not like she caught them fucking or anything and Katie narrows her eyes, seeing Emily casually wipe at her lips, before running a thumb under Naomi's. She is grinning like a fucking wanker of massive proportions and all Katie can do to stop herself from shitting a brick, is bite down on her cheek, hard.
“We're in love,” Emily states, plainly as day. As if it's some sort of justification for rubbing Katie's nose in it.
Katie purposely looks as unimpressed as humanly possible. “No shit.”
Naomi waves a carrot at Katie. “Jealous, Katiekins?” She asks and actually bloody winks as she delicately bites off the tip. There's a pause as Katie tries to work out why she doesn't feel the sick rising immediately to the back of her throat.
“Oh of you shagging my sister, you mean?” comes her snappy response, if a little delayed. “Not sodding likely, you lezza perv.” She tries to remain serious but a small smirk betrays her and Naomi catches it immediately and laughs, and for the love of Christ, she winks at her again. “And I hate to break it to you, Campbell, but your skanky muff is not on my list of things to see in this lifetime.”
“Maybe the next then?” She arches an eyebrow and smirks in a less-insufferable way than usual.
Bloody hell, Naomi fucking Campbell is flirting with her. Of all the situations in the world that could make her impossibly uncomfortable, she has to get stuck in this one. She wouldn't exactly call it a nightmare, but it's so unreal that she's actually at a loss for words.
She manages to mumble a halfhearted “Whatever.” before seeing Emily smile at Naomi and their silent exchange. She groans loudly, her spirit renewed. “I didn't come all the way here so you two could have a go at me, so get your dykey asses back to the hob and make me some food.” She's incredibly pleased at just how firmly that came out of her mouth.
Emily chuckles and goes back to busying herself with the veg. “I've missed you, Katie,” she says offhandedly as she rinses a bowl in the sink.
Both Naomi and Katie stare at Emily momentarily, before the blonde resumes her chopping and Katie allows herself to smile sincerely. That was all she really needed to hear.
The goddamn sofa is not meant for sleeping on, she's completely convinced. She's well pissed off at Naomi for insisting that it was perfectly acceptable and Cook's used it numerous times with no complaint. So, she is forced to learn for herself that it's not only hideous but it's also useless, and Katie's pretty sure the only reason Naomi feels the need to talk it up so bloody much is because its hers and mirrors her personality. Knowing the cheap twat, she probably nicked it from the dump. She automatically scratches at her scalp just as the mere thought of the cushions crawling with lice come into consciousness. This whole thing is getting ridiculous. Emily and her unashamedly-lying girlfriend went into their room hours ago and Katie wishes she could say they were asleep but every so often there's an odd noise, sometimes a thump, sometimes a giggle but most of it is too muffled to be definitive. It's better that way because she really, really, really doesn't want to hear anything. The TV may be a good distraction. Just as she tunes into a programme on water purification, there's the sound of a key in the lock and Cook stumbles in, trips over a corner of the rug, and falls into the wall beside him. Katie can't tell if it's because he's mashed or because it's dark and he just has shit night vision.
It's only when he attempts to flop onto the sofa that he notices her there. Her nose turns up at the scent of stale alcohol and cigarettes and she momentarily wonders how the fuck Emily of all people can tolerate him.
“You stink,” she mumbles as he slumps into the armchair.
“I work at a club, babe,” he reminds her, much more sober sounding than she anticipated. He strips off his shirt and tosses it onto the floor and reaches for a pipe, pulling a baggy from his trousers. There's the overwhelming curiousity about exactly what kind of club he supposedly works at. She rolls her eyes in the dark but continues to watch him in the blue flicker of the TV light. There's a flash of fire as he pulls in the aromatic smoke. “Better?” he asks, exhaling strongly, as if he truly wonders about her answer. When she doesn't respond, he continues. “Wanna hit?”
“No, Cook. It's 2 AM.” She pauses. “You're an idiot, do you get that?”
“You're a nag,” he replies. “Relax, Katiekins. This is serious draw. It makes the shipping forecast sound like a shitting symphony. If you're having trouble sleeping...” He trails off with his suggestion actually seeming more appealing the longer he talks to her. Maybe she should just go for it and pass out. “I missed this, you know? Me, having fun. You trying to stop me from having fun. It's like old times.” He chuckles a little but puts the pipe down without finishing the bowl.
Katie isn't sure whether it's kind of like a compliment or what, and with all the strange signals she's been getting all day, she doesn't even want to hazard a guess. She lays on the settee, curling into the blanket as he stares blankly at the television. Somehow, the silence is actually comfortable. It's been a very long time since she just spent time just doing nothing with anyone. He raps his fingertips against the chair cushions for a moment before breaking the quiet.
“That sofa is shit, yeah. If you want, you can have my bed.” The offer surprises her and she wants to ask when he became a gentleman. Instead she resorts to the familiar.
“No thanks, I don't want, like, chlamydia or something.”
“Funny.”
She shrugs and smirks. “It's what I do.”
Suddenly a tense kind of silence descends and she can tell he's about to say something uncomfortable just by the intake of breath. “I thought shagging all my best mates was more like your specialty.”
It hurts. Much more painfully that she ever expected. Maybe it's the blunt, heartless way he says the words, or maybe it's the fact she's never had anyone actually tell the truth to her face like that. But maybe it's because she doesn't know what provoked it and why he is suddenly trying to upset her.
“And the love of my life,” he adds bitterly.
Fuck. He knew about fucking Effy. Well, Effy fucking her. Shit. Of course that fucking slag would tell him. They probably wanked each other off talking about it. “Yeah well, obviously she wasn't getting something from you.” Her tone is sharp and angry, if only to mask how fucking crap she feels, how much she wants to bawl her eyes out. More than anything she wants to tell him that it was just a stupid one-off at a stupid house party cos Effy was a stupid, drugged-up, horny twat 99% of the time. And Katie just happened to be completely and utterly off her face and thoroughly depressed, which is partly why she hadn't even remembered the shitting thing until a few months ago. It still made her skin crawl. Not surprisingly, it wasn't something she was proud of. “So, whatever, Cook, go tell my sister and Naomi, you all can have a good laugh, alright? Just fuck off.”
Cook blows out a heavy breath out through clenched teeth but he doesn't respond.
“For your fucking information, she fucked me. It's called making a mistake.” Her voice has gotten louder, she thinks. Maybe they're going to have an all out proper row. It wouldn't be the first time. It happened with Cook in his final months in Bristol more often than it had happened with Naomi in all of college. It seemed that Cook was the only one who was able to provoke any sort of impassioned response of any kind, especially after her overwhelming anger at Effy had dissipated in light of their paltry (and mostly tenuous) reconciliation the summer before the final year of college. And the sodding bugger seemed to still possess that certain knack. However, it only really worked when he fought back. This time he was just sitting there, seemingly expecting more abuse. The stupid tosser was even more fucked up than she remembered.
Running a hand over his face, he yawns. Loudly. “Fair enough, Kates. Just had to clear the air, yeah? Forgiven, over and done.” It's like he's ticking off something on a messed up to-do list.
“You fucking prick,” she grumbles.
He grins then, seemingly forgetting completely about the last 5 minutes. “You still want to shag me.” He stretches a leg out and nudges her with his toes. Repeatedly. It's annoying.
She's pretty sure her eyebrows have jumped so far up her forehead they're hidden in her hair by now. “Still? I never wanted to shag you. You're a child.”
He laughs louder. “Ah come on, Katiekins! You want it. We're like the missing pieces, yeah?” He continues laughing. “You've shagged everyone else. I've shagged everyone else so -.”
His completely deplorable come-on is cut short by her interruption. “Campbell?”
He nods vigorously, with the ugliest shit-eating grin on his mug, and the disturbing mental image is a little more than her brain can handle at this time of night.
“Emily?” Her voice betrays just how equally curious and repulsed she is by the concept.
If she thought he was laughing hard before, he it was nothing to the sound that erupts from his throat now. “Your sister is two things: incredibly faithful to Blondie, and, this is sort of a secret,” he leans closer to the redhead. “Gay.” He bursts out laughing again and she huffs in annoyance. “Like '100%, no cock, no way' gay.” He puts to fingers up to his lips and makes incredibly loud licking noises. She thinks that she may actually murder him tonight.
Before she has the chance to find a sharp object, Naomi, full of piss and vinegar, comes barrelling out of her bedroom, in little more than a large t-shirt, and without warning, pummels him over the head. It makes an impressive thwack sound and he flinches. “Shut up! Go to bed. Some of us are sleeping!”
“Oi, Margaret Thatcher, give us a break!” He kicks out a foot in her general direction to keep her back, but still goading her. “Me and Kates here are just having a little chin wag about your Ems' loyalties.”
“You bloody wanker,” she practically snarls. “I have classes tomorrow morning! And you,” she looks down at Katie, “Stop encouraging him.”
God, she was an amazingly stroppy bitch when she was overtired. As she stalks back to her room, Katie flips her off which Cook grins at. For some reason, she supposes this is kind of like a routine for them.
“Bitch. Maybe if she stopped tongue-fucking my sister for 5 minutes, she'd get some rest,” she grumbles, mostly to herself, but it's quiet enough that Cook hears her comment too.
He claps once. Loudly. And on purpose, in the direction of Naomi and Emily's room. “Brilliant.”
Despite the roller-coaster of the last 20 minutes, she reckons they actually connect on some screwed-up level. And, well, he looks more fit than he did in college...
Emily bunks off her lectures for the day to spend time with Katie, and Katie for her part has to resist letting it slip that she got off with Cook the night before. It wasn't like she planned to, but she had found a particularly hard lump in the couch that she couldn't manoeuvre around and Cook was still there, in his chair, scoffing at her attempts and repeatedly telling her she was welcome to his bed. He had promised to take the sofa but as she gathered her pillow, she told him they were responsible adults now.
They both had known it wouldn't remain platonic but Katie needed something that she only seemed to find in the sweat and rhythm of sex, and Cook, well, he was just falling slowly apart. Even she could see that and she'd only spent the better part of 12 hours with the dickhead; he grasped at anything in the vain hope of redemption, or some sort of escape.. The knowledge was reflected in Emily every time she looked in his direction, and Naomi's occasionally pitying stares. She didn't think anyone deserved to be looked at like that. It was probably the same way everyone looked at her now. So she had yanked on his hand and he followed her without resistance into the bedroom.
They hadn't shagged. Not really. She actually hadn't done a thing really, other than a little middle school groping, but she could say that either the boy was born with a natural talent, or he had learnt a little too well from living with two massive lezzas. His mouth did things between her thighs that she had never felt before, and it was really too much of a blur to concentrate on what techniques he even used. Not that she cared. Not that she could even ask Emily if he learnt a few tips and tricks from them.
She runs the tip of her tongue along her bottom lip and feels the small lump of scabbed tissue from biting down too hard. Emily's chatting about something that she stopped paying attention to ages ago. She vaguely hears the mention of Naomi's name and remembers why she stopped listening. Her face flushes instead with flashbacks of the night, and she wiggles a little as she walks to subtly adjust her pants.
It's only when Emily links her arm through hers that Katie actually begins paying a little more attention to the conversation.
“...so then Naomi says that it's really not about that, you know? Christ, it was impressive. I'm telling you, Katie, that tosser just didn't know what to say.”
Katie gazes over to her sister's smiling, distant face. Despite them not actually walking into any other pedestrians or lampposts and the like, it looks like Emily's lost in her own world and Katie wonders how the fuck it's possible to be so bloody smitten with someone for so long. Surely, the thrill should have died down at least a little bit by now. Especially with a cuntish person like Naomi who seems to purposely try to destroy everything she touches. Katie can't even get a guy to just like her for long enough to get a lousy birthday card from Poundland. It's all too much to hear: the happy lilt in Emily's voice, with that fucking dopey smile on her face, the way she just gushes over the blonde heifer. She honestly afraid that any moment, her sister is just going to swoon with recollections of how wonderful Naomi fucking Campbell is. That would be well embarrassing.
“Don't you have anything else to talk about?” she snaps and suddenly Emily's eyes cloud over with anger. Shit. She's fucked up again. She attempts to take it back. “Not that your girlfriend isn't an intensely interesting topic of conversation.” It ends up being far too sarcastic and sharp to be any sort of apology. Emily just stares. She seems to do that far too often now, like she's looking for something constantly and it's awkward because it's not like Effy who you could literally feel creeping around inside your head, or Naomi who tries the same and just fails miraculously at it. Emily is different, she just studies the outside, like it's all a puzzle and she's fitting pieces together: a crinkle of the eyes, a quirk of the lips, the misting of tears threatening to build. They are just pieces. She wonders if Emily actually succeeds, ever.
It's only when a middle-aged woman with far too many New Look bags for her age knocks into her shoulder that she realises they're stopped in the middle of the pavement. There's not really any point in lying.
“I can't stand it, Emily,” Katie huffs and drags her sister over to window of some tacky souvenir shop, out of the way of the pushy, rush-hour crowd. Emily is still fucking staring, squinting a little. It's driving Katie mental and she wants so badly to just knock her in the face. “I can't listen to you go on and on about Naomi anymore. I can't take it. On the phone that's all I hear, when I visit it's all I hear. I get it, okay? You love her. You think she's the greatest fucking thing since strap-ons were invented. Just leave it be now. Okay? It's you and me. We have more to talk about than her.” Her miniature tirade comes to a close and Emily actually looks less angry, and far more guilty. She looks down at her shoes, kicking feebly at a pebble and suddenly Katie doesn't see the new Emily anymore. She's the shy, beaten-down version of herself that existed in middle school. Almost as if, when Naomi isn't in her mind, she loses everything. They stand in silence as Katie feels the sick rising at what she's done. Again and again, they come back to this. It feels worse each time she exerts this power over her twin. The rush is gone.
“I don't want to talk about this here,” Emily finally mumbles at the pavement. “Please, Katie.”
It's so wrong to hear her like this now, so bloody defeated. She wants Emily to fight and she certainly doesn't want to face Naomi back at the flat when the blonde sees how, in the matter of 4 hours, Katie's managed to suck the strength out of her girlfriend. She's faced off with Naomi over Emily multiple times before, and come out on the losing side every single time. She has no desire to repeat the experience.
She considers revealing what she and Cook got up to but decides that it probably will only disgust Emily, not actually cheer her up. She opts instead for the obvious.
“I'm sorry, okay Ems? I just...” she trails off and catches Emily raising her gaze to Katie's face. “It makes me feel left out.” Honesty. A nice touch, she thinks. Then Emily, the stupid cow, just shrugs. Actually shrugs. It's infuriating how blasé the twat could be about her pouring her heart out on a bloody London street corner.
“Maybe if you were as buff as me, you'd have your own completely amazing girl-- boyfriend to talk about,” Emily says, the hint of a grin on her face, daring Katie to respond.
“Oh go on,” she groans and turns her back to her younger sister, walking towards the intersection. “Wanker.”
Emily catches up to her, easily falling instep, and linking their arms again.
Katie didn't realise that she wasn't the only one who could effectively deflate Emily within a couple seconds. As Emily pushes open the door to her flat and walks in, she sees the obvious slump of her twin's shoulders. She pushes her own way inside and glances over to see what the issue is. Naomi, the supposed love of her life, is with Cook on the sofa, in what appears to be the most innocent of cuddles. Katie grimaces at her sister's reaction and then curiously looks back towards the sofa, standing on tip-toe, trying to peer over it to see exactly what Emily is so upset about.
Emily however merely dumps her bag beside a chair and wanders to the kitchen. Katie takes the opportunity to sink down in the armchair that Cook normally occupies and studies the two people. Cook flashes her a weird kind of smile that she's not sure if it's supposed to be inviting or repulsive. Naomi is just plain asleep, her head resting on Cook's chest, curled up around him.
“She's asleep,” he whispers and points at Naomi laying on him.
Katie rolls her eyes. “I'm not fucking blind, Cook.” Any affection she had felt for him the night before somehow evaporates in less than 60 seconds. She says the words loud enough to wake Naomi, and happily succeeds. The blonde raises her head and looks over at Katie with a look of bafflement, like she had forgot Katie was even staying with them. And without moving an inch really, she yawns and calls for Emily, breaking the silence in the flat. Katie's not sure what to make of this. Bellowing for her sister, for apparently no reason was peculiar behaviour - even for Naomi - but she doesn't really have time to think on it before Emily appears beside her, leaning against the armrest, looking down at Naomi in a mildly disinterested fashion.
“What?”
Katie's eyebrows shoot up when she hears the sharpness of her sister's tone. It apparently has no impact whatsoever on Naomi however.
“C'mere. I missed you today,” she grumbles and wiggles around to free herself from Cook, and propping herself up best as she can.
There's something odd about the entire conversation and Katie's not sure if it's because she's never seen Naomi quite so needy and stupid and trying so hard to be adorable, or if she's never seen her sister so sour towards her girlfriend. (When she wasn't her girlfriend, that reaction was understandable.) Especially after their afternoon of shopping and blathering on about Naomi for 3 hours straight. She looks to the blonde minger, who is practically pouting. And then to Cook who looks as completely bored as humanly possible, as if this was an everyday occurrence. And given her experience during her total of 27 hour stay so far, it is quite possible it is. Naomi pushes herself upright, pushes Cook's legs out of her way and Emily finally relents, coming round to Naomi. Wasting no time at all, the disgusting lezza perv has grappled her twin onto straddling her lap and sealed their faces together so tightly that Katie is fairly certain they will stick like that. Cook makes some sort of annoyed grunt sound and kicks Naomi's arse with his foot, forcing her towards the opposite end of the settee.
It's then that Katie sees the look on his face. He's not even close to perving on them. He's well pissed off by the open showing of affection. And, with something resembling shock, she realises he's jealous too. Lonely. The thought annoys her more than it should because it means they're even more similar than she thought. Meanwhile, being in the same room as her sister making out is a little too weird and she feels twinges of revulsion at bearing witness to this. She glances down and unfortunately sees the subtle movement of Emily grinding her hips rhythmically into Naomi's. For fuck's sake.
“Are they always this disrespectful?” Katie asks loudly and pointedly, towards her disgusting sister though she's obviously speaking to Cook. He looks so fucking relieved that she's talking to him, giving him a distraction.
“Just about.”
The comments seem to make absolutely no impact on the couple, especially as Naomi's hands slide up under the green top of the girl on her lap.
“Right,” Katie snorts and pulls herself out of her seat, walking purposely over to them. Cook is watching with a mixture of appreciation and confusion. She grabs Emily by the collar and just yanks her away as hard as possible. The younger twin ends up falling backwards onto the floor, letting a string of obscenities loose upon her offending sister. Naomi looks like she's just about to boil over with rage but she doesn't attempt to help Emily up. When Emily's done swearing at her, she shrugs.
“You two are the rudest fucking cunts in existence,” she states, glaring at her sister on the floor and then to Naomi.
“That's fucking rich, Katie,” Naomi growls. “Did you just not see what you did?”
“You have company, Naomi,” she stresses Naomi's name as if it's an insult. “I don't give a fuck what you two homos do in your bedroom but I'm your guest and you should have some bloody class, not that you'd really know much about that.” She smirks in the practised way she became so accustomed to in college, that quirk of the mouth like she knows exactly how right she is with one eyebrow raised in silent challenge. Naomi narrows her eyes but doesn't argue. Cook looks on in surprise, his mouth half-open. Emily stands up, pulling down her top. She pauses before slapping the side of her sister's head and stomping off.
It doesn't really hurt and Katie barely winces. It was pretty much expected. She just continues to stare Naomi down until the blonde shifts her eyes and slinks out of the room. When their bedroom door slams shut, she falls down next to Cook on the ridiculously uncomfortable couch. They sit in a silence for a while, blankly staring at the television. He doesn't even attempt to pull out a spliff. She wonders if he's as numb as she feels.
She's not sure how many minutes pass before his fingers creep out and intertwine with hers. It's so timid and soft that she practically spins her face around to make sure it's the same boy that used to throw careless punches at gangsters and drug lords and heavily paw at her when he thought she was drunk enough to appreciate it. (She never did. She was never that drunk.) His hand is cold but warms after a moment in hers. She thinks he mumbles a thank you, but it may have just been the television programme.
Fucking insanity, she thinks. Of all people, she's pretty sure that she actually is friends with James Cook now. Fuck.
Cook doesn't come home from work that night.
Neither Emily nor Naomi seem to consider this odd. It's only 2 days later when they've still had no word from him that the worry begins to creep over Naomi's face. When she texts him and sits on the sofa like a statue, waiting for a response for about an hour straight, Emily places a hand on her knee and the look in her eyes says exactly what Katie was dreading too. Naomi sets her jaw, repressing her emotions defiantly, but Katie can see the fear there, sneaking out through her cracks.
COOK
Stupid fucking bitch. Fucking cunts!
He tears down an alleyway, dodging around rubbish bins at an impressive pace as he tries to lose the cops plodding away behind him. It's made increasingly difficult by the fact the quadruple drop of molly he took just a while earlier is now at a full on, massive roll. Fuck, he'd rather take the sodding pills than be caught with them and done for possession or some shit. There's an empty-looking bin ahead and he clambers into it quickly and closes the lid behind himself.
It stinks inside and he's fairly certain there's maggots crawling over his trainers and into his socks. But fuck if it's not absolute the best bin he's ever been in. It's quiet, peaceful but the pitch dark is making him slightly nauseated. As soon as he's sure the police have ran on ahead, he lets a stomach full of sick loose in the confined space and feels only slightly relieved. Peeking out, he sees a clear alley and ends up knocking over the bin as he attempts to climb out, managing to cover himself in a mixture of vomit and maggots, something that would no doubt cause any weaker man to heave all over again. But not him. He's a fucking rockstar, innit.
Brushing off the somehow adorable little bugs, he peers around blearily at his unfamiliar surroundings. What the fuck... The streetlamps beyond are casting a pleasant soft glow through the London fog. He moves towards them. His pocket feels bulky and he fingers around to pull out a decently sized wrap of coke. Definitely for selling. He lets out a boisterous laugh at the shit luck he would have had if not for that rubbish bin. He snorts a bump, feeling the drip and his senses clearing slightly. The nausea is still there though.
He stumbles slightly as he begins to walk again towards the lights, pulling out a spliff from another pocket and laughing even harder at his magical pockets of never-ending drugs. He forgets that they're for profit, not for use. Blondie would shit herself if she knew he didn't have a real job, even if he's so damn good at the one he has it pays better than a shelf-stocker at Iceland. He chuckles, thinking about her face. Taking a long drag, he sits down on the kerb.
He's not sure how long he's been sat there, staring at the trails of the occasional car going by but a drizzle has begun and his tee shirt is getting damp with more than just sweat. Across the road, a shadow stands against a letterbox. He squints, as if it helps at all. It moves into the light and it takes less than a second for him to recognise the glint of blue eyes. He wants to run to her, but he can't seem to move, frozen to the pavement.
“Effy!” he calls out, his voice breaking on the second syllable. He just wants to fucking move. The frustration builds the harder he tries. It doesn't make sense. Part of him knows it's bullshit, that she's a figment of his drug-addled imagination and he wonders briefly about the purity of his gear. But fuck, he misses her so fucking much so he chooses to ignore the remaining rationality. She moves even further into the light, smirking at him and curling her index finger, calling him silently. But she's still mostly a shadow and he wants to be beside her, to see her clearly. He finally manages to get to his feet and darts out rapidly if haphazardly towards the shadow.
He doesn't even see the lights speeding towards him on rain-slick asphalt.
End Part 1. Part 2 is here.
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